


child of spring

by queenofglass



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:10:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofglass/pseuds/queenofglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa caught his eye and smiled. If her boy was spring, then she was summer, and it seemed that the Stark words might go unused for now, for hope bloomed in the North again. Future fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	child of spring

“It’s not like I imagined, my lord.”

Jon glanced at his old friend, who fidgeted under the maester’s chain. “Same for me, Sam.”

The Winterfell he grew up in was gone. There were pieces of it, still old and crumbling, but sewn up with scars. New walls had been erected to fight the Long Night, but rebuilding was a continuing process.

It had been eleven years since Jon had been inside the castle. Eight of winter, then three hopeful years of spring. The Citadel still reported longer days and warmer nights, but in the North, snow was never far.

“The Queen must be very anxious to see you,” Sam continued, shifting on his horse. The beast bore his weight grumpily. “You’re her last brother.”

“We were never close as children,” Jon mused. “Her letter was . . . unexpected.”

Melisandre had restored Jon’s health the night his brothers attacked, then went south with King Stannis. His men were terrified of the supposed resurrection, and no longer questioned orders. He was forced to execute Bowen Marsh, the man behind the plot. He wept and pleaded and _insisted_ he did what was best for the Watch, but even Jon knew his treachery could not go unpunished. As for the rest of the conspirators, they spent many nights the ice cells.

A woman with short black hair waited for them at the gate. Despite her leathers, she bent low at as the horses neared.

“My lord commander,” the woman said respectfully. “Queen Sansa awaits you in Great Hall.”

Sam and Satin followed behind, saying nothing. Jon studied his surroundings for most of the walk, trying to spot the new additions. The stable was larger than before, along with the sept. Two banners flew over the entryway; the traditional sigil of House Stark, and a new banner with a snarling, crowned direwolf.

The Great Hall was as massive as he remembered, but not quite as full. Courtiers mingled freely in the open space. It appears they just missed the midday meal; servants were clearing the tables and sweeping up. All activity stopped short at the sight of Jon and his small party, the direwolf and the black armor.

It had been over a decade since he last saw his trueborn sister, and she had been a child then. Sansa was a woman now, two and twenty, smiling at his approach. A small boy with red-blonde hair sat at her feet, playing intently with a wooden knight.

Jon bent the knee. “My queen.”

“My lord commander,” Sansa returned. “Rise, brother.”

Jon obeyed, studying the queen more closely. Sansa had always been a pretty girl, but it seemed even eight years of winter did not damage her beauty. His eyes landed on the boy at her feet, who had to have been her son.

She followed his gaze and smiled. “Ned, say hello to your uncle, Lord Jon Snow.”

“Nuncle,” he said, stumbling over the word. Jon was vividly reminded of their baby brother Rickon, and forced a smile.

“Hello, my prince.”

Ned blushed. “Is that a direwolf, like the one on Mother’s banners?”

“Yes, my lord,” Jon answered, beckoning the wolf forward. The courtiers present gasped at his size, but Ned was unafraid, only fascinated. “His name is Ghost.”

The boy took to the wolf immediately, his small hands brushing through the fur. Ghost settled by his side, allowing the prince to pet him. Jon smiled. His wolf had infinite patience.

“Accompany me to the crypts, my lord,” Sansa said after a moment, signaling a servant to watch her son. “I trust you want to pay your respects to our lord father and the king.”

The queen, ever polite, told his men that quarters had been prepared for them. When a steward led them away, the two exited the Great Hall.

“I was surprised to receive your letter, my queen,” Jon said softly. Out of all his siblings, Sansa had been the most distant, the most like her lady mother.

“Call me Sansa, brother,” she said sadly. “Put your courtesies aside when we’re alone.”

“Of course.”

They walked in silence to the crypts. Two guards posted there opened the doors at the queen’s nod, and Jon took the lantern himself.

The air was colder, far removed from the hot springs that warmed the rest of the castle. Jon remembered playing down here when they were children, hiding behind past Starks and kings.

“You were married, then?”

She seemed surprised to hear him break the silence. “To Harrold Hardyng, the heir of the Vale. Robert Arryn, my cousin, died young. Lord Baelish arranged the marriage, then we claimed Winterfell in my name.”

“Lord Baelish?”

“He was in love with my mother,” she said simply. “He rescued me from King’s Landing the night Joffrey was murdered. He took me to the Eyrie and I became Alayne Stone, his natural daughter. When Robert passed, Harry inherited the Vale.”

“Where is Lord Baelish now?”

Sansa’s smile turned mysterious. “Another story, for another time.”

Finally, they reached the carving of their father, the first Ned Stark. His face was long and solemn, as it had been in life. The sword in his stone hands was not Ice, but Jon guessed that the greatsword had been lost in the war.

“You look like him.”

“The mason did him justice,” Jon answered carefully. “Did he know him?”

“No, but with my description and those of my men seemed to help. Now to Robb.”

Jon felt his throat close at the sight of his fallen brother. He always thought his time on the Wall had frozen his heart for good, but spring had come to Westeros. He could feel it beating furiously against his chest, thawing.

“The Greatjon said it truly is our brother, carved of stone,” said Sansa quietly. “I wanted him smiling, he was so handsome when he smiled.”

The statue was smiling mischievously, lips curved into a grin that Jon remembered from their youth. It stood in contrast to the other figures, but Robb was unlike the other Starks. A stone Grey Wind even rested at his feet, muzzle draw back in a snarl.

“You did well, Sansa,” Jon murmured. “It is him, a perfect likeness.”

“I’m commissioning statues for every member of the family,” Sansa said, taking his arm. “Mother, Arya, Bran, and Rickon.”

“No sign of them?”

“I . . . ” she paused. “I go to the godswood often, and sometimes . . . sometimes I swear Bran is there. In the heart tree. Waiting for me, and for you.”

Jon wished he could tell her about seeing Summer in the forest, so many years ago. But too much time had past, too many nights spent dreaming of his brother, dead and buried beyond the Wall. He didn’t want to give Sansa false hope, a true killer of men. “Show me tomorrow, sister. It’s been a long while since I went to pray.”

———

Jon was given a place of honor at dinner that night, and he had to chuckle at the irony. The day Robert Baratheon came to Winterfell was a day that changed them all. Jon no longer sat in the midst of the Great Hall, overlooked by the lords and ladies of the court. Tonight he sat at the high table with the queen, her son, and their father’s men.

“The prince is smitten with your wolf, Lord Snow.”

Lady Maege Mormont pointed to the end of the table, and true enough, Ned was feeding Ghost scraps from his own plate.

The queen laughed. “Starks and wolves are one in the same, my lady.”

When Jon returned to his rooms after the crypts that afternoon, Sam told him things he heard while in the castle.

Winter claimed the newest High Septon and most of his sparrows. His successor was paid for his discretion, on Littlefinger’s command. He dissolved the marriage between Sansa and the Imp, though with both of them missing, it was of little circumstance to the hungry lords gobbling up the skeletons of King’s Landing.

Sansa and Harry married soon after Lord Baelish perished, en route to Winterfell. Her husband of four years also succumbed the winds of winter, but not before leaving Sansa with an heir, Ned. Whispers say that a dying woman with a torn face had brought Robb’s bones and his crown north, while the remaining lords braved snowstorms to bend the knee. When her son was born, she legitimized him as Eddard Stark, Prince of Winterfell.

 _My nephew carries a great weight on his shoulders,_ Jon thought, watching the boy play. _And yet he is a child of spring, a Stark in Winterfell. He’ll wear the crown one day, and rule the North as Robb meant to._

Sansa caught his eye and smiled. If her boy was spring, then she was summer, and it seemed that the Stark words might go unused for now, for hope bloomed in the North again.


End file.
